


Winter

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter

The thing about winter, John thinks, is that when your hands are so cold they're clumsy and when your fingers feel like they've been sprayed with ice, you can't even begin to remember the summer.

The thought of idling in a park on an afternoon without your coat on seems laughable, a distant dream like a childhood long gone. People can _tell_ you it happened, and you have the vague memory yourself, but it's impossible to imagine sun warm on your face and hands that move nimbly, not aching for the warmth of a woollen glove.

And then summer comes, and you forget how harsh winter was. You forget the way the wind bites at the corners of your jaw and the constant, ever-present lack of sensation at the tips of your toes. You're glad it's six or five or four months away, because you couldn't possibly imagine how bad it must be at all.

Living without Sherlock is like this.

On days when he's there John can't even imagine for a moment what it must be like without him - coming home and not finding him there in some manic mood or other, either all full of pacing or sloth, creating havoc either way. He cannot imagine what it would be like falling asleep at night without the comforting creak of floorboards below, drifting him away like a baby's mobile in a cot. He cannot imagine not waking up to the all-pervading smell of some gone-wrong experiment and finding that the place he usually fries his bacon is now boiling a pot of something that look like blood stained clothes. Just to test them.

He cannot imagine having his own phone to himself, all the time. Whenever he wants it. He cannot imagine such horror.

But then all of a sudden he finds himself in winter and no matter how hard he tries he cannot resurrect the exact smell of Sherlock's coat or the precise little smile he gives when he knows he's annoyed someone thoroughly. John sits down forcibly on the sofa and tries to remember, presses his fingers deep into the sockets of his eyes and wills the images there, searches hard for the memory in his brain.

But it's never clear. Things without Sherlock are never clear.

No matter how much he tries now he can never quite remember the exact tone of his voice on the morning at the Falls as they stood and discussed the plan. He can never quite remember if Sherlock touched his shoulders or not (is he imagining this? Is he imagining this bright blaze of summer sun or did it happen? Did it honestly happen?) And though he takes the time to write it all down so that he can keep it for himself - evidence, fact, proof - it all just seems like fiction as the curl of winter ice tingles the ends of his fingers and blunts the feeling under his skin. It seems like a myth from this distance, like story made up by a child who believed the world was safe and secure and good.

In the winter John puts away his summer things, hides them in cupboards and under beds and at the very back of wardrobes. He can't imagine ever seeing sun again, anyway.


End file.
